


The Kidnapped Instrument

by spoke



Category: Arthur Conan Doyle - Sherlock Holmes series
Genre: Yuletide, challenge:Yuletide 2007
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-12-25
Updated: 2007-12-25
Packaged: 2017-10-30 01:29:21
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,505
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/326251
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spoke/pseuds/spoke
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>I need to thank Lacey and Shusu for hand-holding and encouragement that got me through writing this. Also, a thousand thanks to my last-minute beta whetherwoman, without whom this fic would still be a mass of typos. Dentists give you the good drugs, people. Don't write while you're on them. (Unless, you know. You absolutely *have* to. <3 Yuletide!)<br/>Any remaining mistakes are all mine, and enjoy!</p>
    </blockquote>





	The Kidnapped Instrument

**Author's Note:**

  * For [earlwyn](https://archiveofourown.org/users/earlwyn/gifts).



> I need to thank Lacey and Shusu for hand-holding and encouragement that got me through writing this. Also, a thousand thanks to my last-minute beta whetherwoman, without whom this fic would still be a mass of typos. Dentists give you the good drugs, people. Don't write while you're on them. (Unless, you know. You absolutely *have* to. <3 Yuletide!)  
> Any remaining mistakes are all mine, and enjoy!

 

 

The day began the same way all those before it had; Holmes and I wasted our morning away as fixtures before the fireplace in Baker Street. The onset of winter had brought with it a dearth of excitement in which it seemed even the most hardened and desperate of criminals must prefer to remain indoors, as we ourselves had. 

Unfortunately, it had also resulted in Holmes once again turning to the drugs for respite from `the mundanity of existence'. Several conversations on the subject nearly became rows as I attempted to convince him of my view on the matter. So far I had failed to move him, and the atmosphere of the household had not been improved by it. I had been reduced to hoping for some some strange crime, however trivial, to come along that might drag him out of his stupor, and out of our rooms. However, there had been nothing of sufficient interest to earn anything more than a sneer from Holmes and I soon dropped that line of discussion.

Matters came to something of a head when Holmes got into a row with Mrs. Hudson, who insisted that we leave so that she could have some peace for an evening. Holmes being still rather apathetic from his latest dose of cocaine, I chose where we would go, and we found ourselves in Covent Garden for our first trip to the opera in many weeks.

The program began well enough, and it seemed I had made a good choice; despite his initial bad humor, I soon saw Holmes as enraptured by the music as he ever had been. It was not until the second act that the evening began to take a turn into that realm of curiosities that usually engaged his attention outside the theater. 

There was some small disturbance with the late arrival of a patron, and the slight grumbling of annoyance spread through the stalls marking his progress. It was settled soon enough, and the audience returned its attention solely to the performance in front of it. It was not only the audience that had been distracted, however; but it was Holmes who first identified the source of our growing dissatisfaction with the music.

"What the devil is wrong with the second violin?" he muttered, brow furrowing in annoyance. I could only stare at the players at first, being quite unaware which was the second violin. Some minutes of observation of the musicians sufficed to make clear to me one young man whose posture had begun to differ markedly from his fellows'. His eyes were marking someone in the audience. 

"The late arrival?" I was willing to encourage him upon any little problem that might maintain his attention, though I could hardly imagine what he might deduce at this distance. His response was curt and uninformative, and I was left to enjoy the performance as best I could, waiting for Holmes to share whatever deductions he had reached. 

I was left waiting until we had exited the theater, when Holmes drew me off to the side and out of the press for cabs. "He presents an interesting study, Watson. He has been some time in either the tropics or the colonies, handles the violin well but received his first training on an entirely different instrument, and as you saw is rather easily distracted. Any other inferences must wait until I have had a closer look."

"Holmes. Clearly whoever came in so late was known to him, a friend or a relative perhaps. You can hardly blame the boy for being distracted by an unexpected visitor." I told him, knowing full well he could. He had not been happy to have the music interrupted. 

"Unexpected is the word, Watson. He wasn't entirely happy to see this visitor, so I believe it isn't family. I want to see if..." He trailed off, scanning the crowd as if he thought to see the violinist amoung them. "There we are."

"Doesn't he have something to do inside, Holmes?" I watched as the young man appeared in a doorway. beckoning to someone in the crowd. The man who responded to his summons was not at all what I might have expected. Perhaps a few years older than our violinist, with black hair and startlingly blue eyes that caught mine as he pushed his way through the crowd, passing us closely. He was well dressed and seemed polite for all that he was shoving people about, yet there was something rakish in those eyes that made me scowl. "Holmes?" 

I turned to find my friend staring after the pair that had entered the theater with the sort of expression more usually reserved for cases. "Holmes, you're not on a case." 

"I'm quite aware of that, Doctor. Though something may be heading my way, unless I'm very much mistaken." He turned and hailed a cab, and I put the entire thing out of my mind. 

* * *

For all that brief glimmer of hope, the next few days were as uneventful as those that had preceded them. The one benefit of our encounter was that Holmes shook off his languor. Instead he turned to making the air about the house reek with chemical analysis; or so Mrs. Hudson described it with a smile she hardly bothered to disguise. All our improved good moods served only to irritate Holmes, who listened for the doorbell now with an eager look in his eyes. He had returned to checking the papers thoroughly, and throwing them down as if they had personally offended him when it turned out there had yet been no crime. 

It seemed as if no case was to come of it all, until the business came to Holmes in a most unexpected way. I had just returned from an evening at the club when Mrs. Hudson let us know we were receiving a visitor. As I turned to Holmes, I saw in his eyes the look of a man triumphant, though how he could be certain this had anything to do with the opera incident, I cannot say. I'm sure neither of us expected who our visitor turned out to be. 

"Mr. Paul Richards." announced the boy, and opened the door for our young violinist. I could now see him far more clearly than from our stall in the opera. His clothes were simple but fashionable. Dark blonde hair and blue-green eyes stood out against skin that seemed unusually tanned for winter, and he was perhaps a few inches short of Holmes's height. In the brief moment of direct eye contact between us before he turned to Holmes, I got the feeling that he was hiding something; an impression intensified by the fact that he was having trouble staying still. These were my first impressions, but they were brushed aside as he spoke. 

"Hello, Mr. Sherlock Holmes." He said it quietly, but I was immediately struck by the extraordinary quality of his voice. He spoke with an inflection that nearly amounted to an accent and which only be described as melodious. "I'm hoping you can help me recover something my father has taken from me. I don't wish to bring the police into the matter. But he won't listen to me, and I can't figure out where he's hidden it." 

Holmes's expression at this point was one of mingled surprise and confusion. "Have you no other way to recover this item?" 

Mr. Richards had not been calm when he entered, but now he began to show every sign of serious distress. "I came to you because you have a reputation for discretion, Mr. Holmes. I'd like to keep this as private as possible." 

"I shall set aside the problematic legalities of the situation. What is the item you wish me to recover?" Holmes asked, an expression on his face that I found difficult to read even with years of experience. "I can hardly be expected to recover something when I don't know what I'm looking for," he added, as Mr. Richards showed every sign of hesitation. 

"It... Well..." He took a deep breath, staring for a moment into the crackling fireplace before turning to Holmes with a most alarming change of expression. Up to this moment he had been nervous and diffident, almost self-effacing; but now there was a light in his eyes and a twist to his grin that spoke of considerable recklessness sleeping beneath that calm surface. "It's a sitar."

"I'm sorry?"

"A sitar. An Indian instrument I picked up when I was a boy, and brought home with me when we came to England. It was alright when it was just the two of us and my little brother. But my father remarried recently, and since she came into the house everything's gone wrong. She never would stop complaining of the noise when I played, or of my manners, or really anything she could complain of." Here he was forced to pause to breathe, and I found myself feeling rather sorry for the woman who'd been on the receiving end of what looked to be a fine temper. "Eventually it got so bad that it was clear one of us had to go, and that would have to be me. But when I went to take the sitar, I couldn't find it. They were out at the time, and I searched a little before coming to the conclusion that it had been misplaced and I would find it when I called the next day."

"But you didn't." 

"No. What was worse, when I went to ask my father about it he insisted he had no idea where it was. But he does, Mr. Holmes, I'm sure he does." 

"You're certain that it is your father to blame for the disappearance and not your step-mother?" 

"Yes." 

"Thank you. I think that I will endeavor to recover your missing sitar, Mr. Richards. Kindly give Dr. Watson your father's address and your own, and I will contact you as soon as I have word." 

"Thank you, Mr. Holmes. Thank you so much!" He smiled in a much relieved fashion and after giving me the requested addresses, left our rooms with a far lighter step than he had entered. 

Before he could have gotten farther than the steps, Holmes was dashing for his coat. "Surely you're not going out right this minute, Holmes! The weather's beastly cold out there still." 

"Yes, Watson. It has been known to happen in winter," he called from his room.

"Should I grab my coat, then?" I asked as he fairly flew past me.

"No time, Watson! But I'll tell you, that young man is hiding something, and it's better to try and see what it is than go rushing into this mess." With which statement he was gone, and I settled myself in to wait for Holmes's return half in a medical mindset. If he came down sick from this I'd never hear the end of it from Mrs. Hudson.

* * *

As it turned out, I didn't have long to wait. Perhaps two hours after I had settled in, I was roused from a light doze by the sound of Mrs. Hudson complaining of Holmes's bringing in the snow and the cold with him. For all her complaints, he entered the room looking pensive. 

"Well. Did you discover what he was hiding while you were risking pneumonia out there?" 

"I may have, Watson." 

He looked at me with a tenderness that seemed entirely out of place in the conversation. "Holmes? Is something the matter?" 

"No. Not here, at any rate." He smiled, the temporary cloud lifting from his expression. "I don't know that Mr. Richards isn't quite right in desiring as much secrecy as possible, Watson. Tomorrow we shall make a call at the home of Richards the senior, and until then I beg you not to ask anymore of me." 

I agreed with what I hoped was not undue consternation, and we retired for the evening.

* * *

The next morning dawned even colder than the night previous, leading me to fear that we were in for a truly wretched winter. Still, we could not abandon the case. So we bundled ourselves as best we could against the wretched weather and went down to the street to look for a cab. 

Nearly an hour later, we were climbing out at 56 Market Street. It was a comfortable looking, ordinary sort of house, set back in a small yard with a few old trees that might have screened it nicely had the leaves not already fallen. There seemed to be an unusual amount of people out considering the hour and the weather, and it was soon apparent that they were as interested in our destination as we were. There was some small difficulty in convincing the constable on duty to let us pass, but when Inspector Lestrade exited the house and saw Holmes, it was quite cleared up. 

"Well, Mr. Holmes. I really don't know how you've done it." Lestrade bustled, looking suspiciously at Holmes.

"I haven't the foggiest idea what you mean, Inspector." Holmes replied blandly, though I could tell he was a bit annoyed and possibly even concerned by Lestrade's presence. 

"Gotten to the mystery this quick. Although it isn't much of a mystery, I'll grant you. Still, when a man insists that his house has not been burglared, it is quite clear something isn't right." Lestrade announced with the decisive air of a man who has just won an argument. 

"Does he now?" Holmes murmured, and I was struck with the sudden concern that in spite of asking for our help, our client had done something rash. I might have asked Holmes about it if it weren't the presence of Lestrade and the recollection of Mr. Richards' extreme desire for secrecy, coupled with the fact that Holmes's last opinion on the subject had been to call it justified. 

"He does. He wasn't even the one who called for the police, it was his wife that called us." Lestrade said, turning to me as if I might be more talkative than Holmes. I could only shake my head at this attention; far be it from me to give away another man's secrets when my friend had deemed them necessary. "She called us," he continued sharply, "and when the constable arrived the man of the house tried to send him away. When he wouldn't leave, he got quite short with the man; and he's done the same to me since I arrived. What's more, he's gotten to the wife and she won't admit there was ever any need to call us in. The whole thing's some bizarre practical joke as far as anyone in that house will admit."

Holmes responded to this little tirade in conciliatory tones. "I suppose it is terribly frustrating to have come out all this way for nothing." He bowed slightly as if to send Lestrade off, and began to walk towards the house.

Unfortunately Lestrade followed him, clearly instead intending to insert his rat-like nose into whatever business Holmes might be pursuing. "Nothing! They're obviously hiding something in that house, Mr. Holmes, and I want to know what you're doing involved in it. You didn't come down here for a social visit, I'm sure of that." He was by now alarmingly irritated, and I caught the shortest glimpse of someone at one of the windows before Holmes reached the door. 

Holmes turned as soon as he reached it, effectively barring Lestrade from entering. "Nevertheless, I cannot help you Inspector. Though I shall certainly let you know if anything in your line turns up." 

These last lines were delivered in such impressive tones of sarcasm that it became impossible for Lestrade to stand his ground. "Well, I wish you all the credit you can get out of it, because there certainly hasn't been any crime here." He stalked off down the path with an occasional suspicious glance back.

I very much doubt that Holmes even heard him, however. The door had been opened by a man who was clearly Richards senior, though on a second glance I couldn't say why he struck me so strongly as the father. There was no marked resemblance aside from the way he held himself, so I had to suspect the young man took after his mother. 

"I said, Inspector -" he began, and very nearly flinched upon seeing that it was not Lestrade returned to his doorstep for another round of arguments and denials. "Who are you, sir? More importantly, why are you at the doorstep of a total stranger?" 

Holmes had been regarding him narrowly since the door opened, but his whole manner abruptly changed. "I am sorry, I believe I may have gotten the wrong address. Unless you are a Mr. Sands?" 

"Certainly not." He growled, making to shut the door in our faces.

"Good day then!" Holmes called, though his last word was no doubt lost in the slam of door into frame.

"Well that was incredibly rude!" I remarked to Holmes as we made our way back down the path. I had gone a few steps before I quite realized Holmes had stopped behind me, and turned to catch the end of a rather odd little act. He'd brought his hands down from a position not unlike that of a violin player, and was now making a small circular motion with his hand which made absolutely no sense to me. Before I could ask what that was about, he had caught me up and with a curt, "Come, Watson!" was making his way onto the street. 

I had expected that we would now return to Baker Street, or perhaps to the address given me by our young friend. What did happen was that we made our way down Market Street for a short distance before turning through a side road and from there back around the houses in such a manner it was a wonder we didn't get lost. "Holmes!" I managed as we came to a halt. We were standing in a non-descript little alley, clearly at the back of someone's home. "Holmes, what are we doing here?" I asked, fully intending to pursue the matter until I got some kind of response. 

Holmes replied without taking his eyes from the house. "I believe our client may yet have a friend in the house, Watson. If I'm correct, that friend will be sneaking out to see us shortly." 

"Sneaking out, Holmes? Who would ever have to sneak out - oh." I paused in surprise as I suddenly recalled that melodious voice of last night mentioning, although only briefly, that he had a brother. A younger brother, who surely had to be circumspect in leaving the house while his parents were so agitated. 

Bearing this out, we were some moments in the bitter cold before there was any sign of life from that house. When it came, it was in the form of a lad who whose eyes belonged to somebody a good deal older than his tender age of about fifteen. He took after the father far more clearly than his brother, with a sharp jaw and stiff bearing that spoke of a formidable man in the making. The resemblance to his brother lay only in the eyes, though these were closer to green than blue. He stared at Holmes intently before glancing back at the house to be certain we weren't being watched. "Who are you?" 

Holmes's eyebrows rose in surprise. "My name is Sherlock Holmes, and this is my college Dr. Watson. May I ask whom I am addressing?" 

"David Richards." He replied simply, looking us both over as if trying to discern our motives. "Why are you here? You weren't with the inspector." 

"I am a detective, young David. Your brother asked me to recover something of his from this house. It would be better all around if I had an easy way of returning his stolen property; certain individuals need not become involved that way." 

"I do recognize your name, Mr. Holmes. I take all father's newspapers when he's read them, including the Strand. But I couldn't find the sitar. Besides, `certain individuals' are welcome to become involved for all I really care, Mr. Holmes." He smiled in a fashion that might have been pleasant enough if it hadn't been for the fixed quality.

Holmes looked very grave at this. "Are you sure you really mean that, David? He's here already. I think you know how dangerous he is?" 

The boy's face paled considerably, but he stood his ground and responded with only a slight waver in his voice. "More than you do. But Father should never have remarried." He paused, breathing deeply. "For all of me, the house can be ransacked or burned, Mr. Holmes. Then I should go back home to India with Pritam and John, and we could pretend none of this had ever happened. But I can't help you find his sitar, Mr. Holmes, because I already tried and it isn't anywhere in the house." 

Homes looked slightly taken aback by this little flood of emotion. "Pritam..." he murmured under his breath. "Perhaps if you told me where you have looked. It would help me discern where it is hidden, David. I don't believe you really want to put your father's life in danger; nor your stepmother, regardless of your feelings for her." 

"How would you know?" he glared, his age beginning to show beneath his strained composure. "There's been nothing but grief and lies since she came to live with us. I'm tired of it. I'm tired of this beastly England with its horrible weather, and having to lie to people." 

"Hadn't you better go in? You haven't even got a coat!" I was beginning to be concerned by the his demeanor, as it was obvious the cold was striking him far more harshly than Holmes and myself. He had begun to shake slightly. "Holmes, you need to cut this short before the young man catches his death."

"I believe Dr. Watson is correct, David. Now. Whatever the truth of your feelings in the matter, your brother and I desire to avoid any scandal or threat to your family. Tell me where you have looked, so that I won't waste time duplicating your efforts." 

He looked at me in wounded adolescent pride before answering Holmes. "My father's room and the attic. Everywhere else I think I've checked pretty thoroughly; it's not like there are so many places you can hide something as big as a sitar. If you're going to look, tomorrow would be the best time? Father is taking me to the zoo. She'll be coming with us." 

"Excellent. Well, David, I believe the good doctor is right, and you need to get back into the warmth of the house straight away."

"I don't feel cold." He was obviously lying, but to no avail; Holmes had already begun walking away. 

After a last glance at the child now heading back inside, I began catching up with Holmes. "Holmes!" I called after him, hoping to slow him down, for he was walking quite quickly. The paths were slick with ice and snow, and I tried to be careful in catching him up. Still, my breathing was a bit irregular by the time I'd managed it.

"Watson." He continued walking, though at a somewhat lessened pace. "There is something not right about that household. I think I would do better to look into the father's history before returning to the place on the morrow. I don't think I'll need you for the rest of the day, but do be back in Baker Street before the evening's over? I should have a plan of action by then." 

Accordingly, we parted, Holmes to wherever his investigations might lead, and I to my club in hopes of a hot meal.

* * *

It wasn't until very late that evening that Holmes returned, looking the worse for wear and a little put out. I watched as he settled into his chair and let up a pipe, noticing the slight shaking of his hands that told me had once again gone without food. "My dear Holmes. When are you ever going to learn to eat during your cases?" 

"Watson." he said in weary tones. "I have been all day hunting up the service records of a Mr. Avery Richards, recently retired and returned from India, where he was married to a woman about whom I know nothing expect that she gave him two children before dying. The most interesting thing is that he left India under some sort of a cloud, the nature of which not even those few I can find who knew him would explain. I am inclined to think whatever is being concealed here concerns the first wife. But that does not explain the other problem."

He opened his eyes and looked a bit surprised to see me standing over him. "None of this explains the refusal to eat, Holmes. I've gotten Mrs. Hudson to make us up some sandwiches. Yours is under the serving dish on the table." 

Holmes shrugged in good natured amusement. "Well, well. I suppose it wouldn't hurt now." He shoved himself out of the chair and set to eating with unsurprising vigor. "There are only one or two points to clear up, really. Tomorrow I will make a call on the Richards house, and you will call upon Mr. Paul Richards and a guest of his. You'll want to bring your revolver for this one, Watson; it is very much necessary to be certain his guest does not do anything rash."

"Holmes!" I thought he was joking, but upon meeting his eyes I could see nothing but the utmost seriousness. "Well. On that cheerful note I think I will retire for the evening, Holmes. There doesn't seem to be much use for me here, and I'm clearly going to need my wits about me on the morrow."

* * *

I awoke the next morning to find Holmes had already gone. When Mrs. Hudson came in, I asked when he had gone out; but she had no more idea than I did. I headed off to the house of Mr. Paul Richards with gun in hand and some misgivings in my heart. Holmes had wanted me to bring my revolver. How was he to be sure that this blue-eyed gentleman, for it surely must be the recent arrival of this character that had precipitated events, wouldn't show up at the Richards' house to threaten him? But I knew that I would accomplish nothing by following Holmes.

When I came to the house of Paul Richards, it looked rather empty. There was no sign of light, nor servants of any sort, and yet the door was unlocked. I would soon have reason to regret treating an open door as an invitation, but at the time I had no way of knowing the shock I was about to receive. My main concern was for our client, that he might also be in danger from this erstwhile friend of his.

The first couple of doors where locked, though they sounded empty enough. When I drew close to the end of the hall, I began to hear a certain amount of small noises that made me think of someone in pain. What came into my mind was that young Paul was being choked, and I opened the door with my gun in hand, intending to save him. He was on his knees in what I distantly noticed was quite the comfortably furnished room, with a small fire roaring merrily off to one side. As it turned out, it was not quite the sort of choking that I had imagined. 

I shut it far more quickly than I had opened it, but not quickly enough to prevent myself seeing something that will doubtless remain etched onto my mind for the rest of my life. I stood there telling myself I was giving them time to recover from the shock and possibly finish what they had been doing before being so rudely interrupted. Really I was wondering the most indecent things concerning the activity in question. 

I had managed to regain some measure of composure when the door was opened again, this time only a crack from the inside. When Mr. Richards saw who I was, he opened the door a little farther. "Dr. Watson?" he asked, voice shaky and a little raw. I winced as the sound of that voice and the newly formed visceral images in my mind combined to make the situation very uncomfortable. "Are you alright, Dr. Watson?" he repeated, and now there was a definite note of amusement in his voice.

At this point an unknown voice entered the conversation. "He is still there, then? Let me see this Dr. Watson." Paul was pulled back into the room and off to the side, and I found myself staring directly into the same vivid blue eyes that had left so disturbing an impression on me when I first saw him. "Well. Since you don't seem all that upset at your little eyeful, perhaps you'd care to come in and join us?"

Something of sense returned to me then, and I reminded myself of what Holmes had told me. As soon as I was in the room, I drew my revolver and asked him to sit down. The shock on his face when he saw the gun was at least a small balm for my own wounded pride; but the look on Paul's face showed one of those sudden shifts of nature that I was beginning to suspect was normal for him. His embarrassment had given way to a steely anger, and his eyes did not leave the gun as he asked me what I was doing.

"Trying to keep you both out of trouble while Holmes recovers your sitar. Which, by the way, Holmes is either doing now or has done." 

"He is, is he?" The other asked with a sneer, and added, "What did you think you were doing, inviting a detective into our business, Paul?" 

"John, shhh." 

"Well there's hardly any need for that now, is there?" I might have put it a little sharply, given the looks on their faces. I was past caring at that point, however. "You two do realize what you were doing is illegal and we could all go to jail for it?" I blurted out, immediately regretting it as they laughed. 

"Why would they throw you in jail, Dr. Watson?" The stranger nearly purred at me, like some monstrous giant cat. 

"Oh, let me see - because I haven't turned you in, and that's commuting a crime? I'm sure they could find any number of other things to bring up during the trial, and it wouldn't take long to come to that." 

"Like you and Mr. Holmes?" Paul asked softly, and we both turned to stare at him. He had the most vicious smirk on his face, and when I looked back to the stranger it was mirrored.

I had no response for that question, nor any desire to try to respond, so I turned to the stranger instead. "What is your name, anyway?"

"His name," announced a voice that made us all jump, "is John Neville Blakeney, son of a Mr. Aidan Blakeney, late a major of her Majesty's army. He was born in England, but spent most of his childhood in India, whence he came recently because he was suspected of the murder of a native gentleman." Holmes stepped forward out of the shadows of the hall, and we could all see the instrument which he was holding in his hands. Paul started forward with an exclamation of joy that brought a smirk to Mr. Blakeney's face. He stopped short as Holmes took a step back. 

"Before we go any further, I should like to know what your purpose was in damaging such a fine instrument, Mr. Richards."

"Damaging? I didn't - that is, there wasn't..." His face drained of all color, he stepped slowly away from Holmes. "What do you mean, damaged?" 

"I don't suppose you're going to shoot me if I get him some brandy, Dr. Watson?" Mr. Blakeney hissed, eyes on his friend even as he spoke to me. 

"Of course not." I lowered the gun, though I did not take my eyes off him as he pulled a bottle and cup out of a nearby cabinet. 

Mr. Richards drank it a little too quickly, and Holmes and I shared a no doubt unfortunate amused look, given Mr. Blakeney's reaction to it. When he'd managed to recover somewhat from the shock and the brandy, he turned to Holmes and repeated his question.

Holmes sighed, turning over the sitar so that the damage in question was all too visible. Looking like some jagged scar in the firelight's flickering was a square cut in the back. It looked as if it had been sawed open, or something equally awful. "The question becomes, what is inside it? Why would anyone go to such lengths as to hide whatever is inside it?" 

Mr. Richards shook his head sharply, not meeting Holmes's eyes. "No one would. There can't be anything in there." 

"Mr. Richards. I have been carrying this remarkable instrument for some distance. It is impossible not to notice that there is something inside it. What could your father have been hiding, aside from the facts of your birth?" He smiled as the atmosphere of the room became suddenly chilly. I was glad to remember I had my revolver when I saw Mr. Blakeney's eyes; if ever an expression could be presented as proof of intention to murder, it was his. 

"You really don't want to do that, Mr. Holmes." he said, eyes trained on my friend so that I was compelled to move closer to Holmes.

"Why Mr. Blakeney. What is it that I don't want to do?" Shadows played across the room as the fire began to go down; no one had bothered to feed for some time now. Holmes was matched his gaze, and it seemed neither of them would stand down from this staring contest. 

Mr. Blakeney backed down first. "Everything." he snarled, turning back to Mr. Richards, who still looked as if he was going to be ill. "Anything you do could result in the ruin of everyone in this room." 

Holmes watched him checking on Mr. Richards and then turned to look at me. "Watson, did something happen?" 

"Nothing except that Mr. Richards there has a good intuition." I answered, hoping that he could tell by my expression what it was I didn't want to say.

He certainly seemed to take the hint, walking over to the table and laying the instrument down upon it almost reverently. Up close, I could tell it had an usual amount of strings, and the shape wasn't quite like anything else I had seen. It looked very bulky, leading me to wonder how a player was supposed to handle it. "It is a fine piece of work. Very old, I should think, the wood has a very aged feel to it. Yet your father would rather damage it in this horrible fashion than allow you to keep it. Why?" he demanded again, looking up at Mr. Richards. 

"Paul," Blakeney began, and when Paul shook his head, he hissed almost inaudibly. "Pritam!" 

But having made up his mind to speak, he was not to be stopped. "My mother," Mr. Richards choked, and then started over again, with his gaze roaming over the fire or the bookshelves or anything expect Holmes and the sitar lying on the table. "It belonged to my mother. She was Indian, Mr. Holmes." 

"I had deduced as much. Your brother was quite informative on the subject. In a roundabout way, of course." 

He laughed softly. "Yes. Everything David does seems to be roundabout. Our mother, then, was Indian. I don't think we would ever have left India if she hadn't died. But when it happened, and she was no longer there to remind our father that we were just as much her children as his, well. He got this idea in his head that we should have been raised in England all along, and that if he just picked us up and bundled us off to his homeland, we would take to the place like transplanted trees. It was ridiculous, the way he expected us to just adapt without any trouble at all. But it was bearable until..." He trailed off uncomfortably. 

"Until your father remarried?" Holmes asked kindly. He motioned to me to put the revolver away, but I did so reluctantly. I believed grief on the part of Mr. Richards would make his companion more dangerous and not less. 

Mr. Richards looked very much as if he'd bitten into something sour. "He expected us to listen to her, and she kept criticizing my mother. She had no idea what she was talking about! She kept telling me I hadn't been raised to be a proper gentleman, and I'd never get anywhere in life just playing the sitar, and that I should learn a proper instrument if I must entertain for a living." His expression became uglier the longer he went on, until Blakeney put a hand on his shoulder. He shuddered then and took a deep breath. "Well, you know what happened eventually. I left and it might have ended there if Father had given me the sitar; he knew Mother meant for me to have it. He knew, but he didn't care." 

"I think it was a ploy to get you to stay, actually." Blakeney pointed to it as his other hand gently tightened on Richards's shoulder. "You were never going to leave without that." 

"But why cut it open, and what are the papers inside it?" I looked it over myself, tapping the lines of the cut. 

"Well. There is one way to know for sure." Holmes said quietly. He looked across the room at our client, who nodded without saying a word. He was beginning to look dangerously pale again, and it was only then that it occurred to me that what I had taken for a tanning of his skin was in fact his normal colour. 

Holmes took a small instrument from his pocket which I recognized as being part of the burglaring equipment he used in the Milverton case. He opened it to a small and gleaming blade, and placing this in line with the existing cuts, he traced them out and opened up the sealed instrument. He tilted it so that a small cascade of folded papers came out, some of them official-looking but most appearing to be personal. This did not stop Holmes from picking up the first and unfolding it, but he frowned. "Unfortunately, I cannot read this at all. Mr. Richards?" 

He stood a little weakly and on came to the table with Blakeney right on his heels. As he took the paper from Holmes, his eyebrows rose in surprise. "It's a love letter." He set it down and reached for another one. And another. "I think they all are, except this legal stuff." 

Holmes had taken up the official looking papers, and now handed one to me. "This legal stuff? It's your birth certificate. Here's your brother's as well. Both of these list your mother as being a Hindu lady of some small status." 

"So he was trying to make sure they had no way of proving their birth. To what end?" Blakeney asked, looking from me to Holmes and then to Richards.

"To preserve his own secrets? To bury his past?" Holmes shrugged, looking ruefully at the sitar casting its shadow on the wall behind me. "Who knows what was going through the man's mind? I think it would be best for all parties concerned if we pretended none of this had ever happened. Someday," he continued over the protests of Blakeney and Richards both, "you may be able to convince Richards senior of the error of his ways. But I would suggest letting any such business wait until David has reached his majority and can get himself out from under that roof." He searched Richards's eyes and shook his head before turning to Blakeney. "You must make sure to stay out of the clutches of the law, you understand. Being taken under custody for any charge could be disastrous for you, and disaster for you is disaster for Paul. You do realize this?" 

"I've known that since I had to leave India, Mr. Holmes. There was a lot of time to think on that journey."

Richards looked up at him, evidently hearing something in his voice that we did not. "John?" He whispered softly, tying to catch his partner's eyes. "What is it, John?" 

"I was thinking we me might go to Australia. Or America. Anywhere at all, really, if it gets us away from here." 

He started back, and looked at Blakeney for some little time before nodding. "As long as we write to David, and come back here when he's old enough?" 

"Of course." Blakeney smirked. "Then we'll have plenty of time to give your father more grief than he thought existed over this." 

I didn't doubt that he would. But it was only as he said it that I noticed Holmes had quietly slipped out of the room and was beckoning to me from the hallway. I stepped outside with him, and turning saw the two of them much closer than they had been only minutes before. "Remember, this time!" I called to them, trying to laugh as they startled, "Lock this door!" With which words we were gone down the stairs and out into the late afternoon light. 

* * *

After a lovely meal at a restaurant and a refreshing walk through the quiet streets towards home, we found ourselves back where we had started the entire confused adventure. Our moods had been greatly improved, however, and Holmes had just brought out his violin for an evening of improvisation when I leaned towards him. "So, how did you find it?" 

"Find what, Watson?" He asked with a nonchalance that did not conceal his amusement. 

"The sitar, Holmes. Never mind the truth about the Richards's boys heritage." 

"Well. First I had, as you know, to investigate the father. There I found that there was no mention of his wife and I do mean none." He frowned before drawing the bow experimentally across the strings. "It was very much as if her existence had been stricken from all the official records. So it was no wonder to me that the sons had begun to resent their father. Anyone with a heart would have to, at that point. Especially with the stepmother making herself odious about it." 

"But there was nothing they could do about it, and Paul decided to leave."

"Precisely. And for all his attempts to erase her from their minds, Avery Richards could not erase her from his own. When he realized he was losing the child who most took after the mother, he took to kidnapping of a musical instrument. Which, you must admit, is a bit unusual; but it worked quite well. Paul might have ended up agreeing to go back to living there, were it not for the completely unexpected arrival of an old ...acquaintance from India. I imagine they missed each other to an astounding degree, since Blakeney was at some pains to track Richards down. I began to run across his trail in the matter almost as soon as I had begun my own search. I did not, however, wish to draw attention to something that should have remained private; and when I followed him that first night, I witnessed a scene... of a type less advanced than you appeared to have when I reached you this afternoon?" 

I nodded and made some small noise of affirmation, hoping that said scene's effect on me wasn't too obvious.

Though judging by Holmes's smirk, it was. "That was when I knew I was dealing with something a bit too delicate to allow the official force into. They'd have been arresting us all, and given Mr. Blakeney's past history, it would have been quite ugly."

"Did he really murder someone in India?" 

"Oh yes. And that was only the one the police force there knew about; there is a distinct cloud of suspicion and intrigue about that young man which is only going to get worse as he gets older. I am very much afraid things are going to end badly for those two no matter what. But I may have secured some chance for the brother to have a future not involving crime." 

With which statement we both set aside conversation for the evening, drifting off into the music that would eventually lead us to other occupations.

 


End file.
